


The Servants of Man

by cosmic_medusa



Series: We Three Kings [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmic_medusa/pseuds/cosmic_medusa
Summary: During his time at Rosemount, Missouri decides Sam needs to unburden himself about what happened on the street after he was kicked out of Dean and Cas' house. Sam complies, hoping it will be the last he'll ever have to think about it.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: We Three Kings [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1306616
Kudos: 8





	The Servants of Man

A/N: A quote will appear with an * to indicate that it is lovingly taken directly from one of the best TV shows

of all time (besides SPN of course) _Homicide: Life on the Street_.

A further explanation of the context Cas used this in, and how Sam morphed it, will appear in a later chapter.

_Ye are bought with a price; be not ye the servants of men_. **1 Corinthians 7:23**

  
  
**NOW**

Missouri always smiled warmly at him when he arrived for session, even if he knew she planned to ream him out.

“I know you’re gonna yell at me,” he grumbled.

“Who, me? I wouldn’t dream of it.” She swung her chair around and scooted closer to him. She never touched paper while he was with her: once, when he said it made him nervous, because he didn’t know what she was thinking during sessions, she’d sat intently making notes, which he’d asked to see after. He had been more than a little surprised to see that there was nothing but scribble on the pad.

“I sit and evaluate afterwards, honey. During the session, my job is to give _you_ my full attention. And for the record,” she had scooted back on her rolling chair and opened up her drawer. “I’ve got your file, and you can see it any time. It’s a whole lot of numbers and codes for the insurance company. I’m not going to write your secrets and call you some evil cretin behind your back.”

She had explained, quite patiently, that what he was doing was projecting all this self-hate and anxiety and terror at this new acceptance of his substance abuse on those around him. And that it wasn’t a bad or evil thing: he wanted to be reassured. She would reassure him.

“So,” she said, leaning back in her seat. “Why am I gonna yell at you?”

“I skipped groups.”

“But went to meals and meds?”

Sam blushed and kicked at the floor. “I haven’t been feeling well.” 

“You ever heard of a suppository, Sam? Cause if you don’t take your meds, you’re risking your heart, and Alan can’t have that while you’re in his care. And believe me, I’ve seen him administer them, and it ain't pretty.”

Sam felt his face go very, very hot. “Everyone’s been pushing me to talk about things I just...can’t.”

“Jessica? Madison? Your Daddy?” Sam shook his head. “Dean? Cas? C’mon, Sam. It’s you and me.”

“We were having this...’changing moment’ meeting. We were supposed to talk about what made us decide to enter rehab. And I told them getting kicked out of my brother’s house changed my mind.”

“But it didn’t. You were still using for a couple weeks there.”

“Well...living on the street. Changed things.”

“Right. And you won’t talk about those weeks on the street.” Sam shrugged. Missouri sighed. “And avoiding groups is going to make that go away?”

“I can’t...” his voice cracked.

“You know you have to then.”

“No. I’m here now. That’s what matters.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Missouri said firmly. “You know the drill. “

“You people have taken away _all my freedom_ ,” Sam nearly shouted. “I signed papers saying I wanted medical treatment! I didn’t say I was obligated to tell you every detail of my life!”

“The medical treatment won’t stick if you’re not honest about everything you’ve done while you were using, own up to it, and work on all the residual and underlying psychology.” Missouri leaned forward. “And don’t you talk to me about taking away anything. _You_ gave yourself over to drinking and drugs. _And_ the street. _We_ put a roof over your head and something other than poison in your veins. You don’t like it, sign yourself out AMA and hit the bricks.”

Sam clenched his hands against his fists. He’d had this argument before. He didn’t want to have it again. “I’m sorry,” he managed.

“I don’t want your apologies. I want the truth. And I _don’t_ want to see another non-compliance notice on my desk with your name on it, you hear me? You get your ass where it’s gotta be, when it’s gotta be there.”

Sam nodded. He could do this. He’d sworn he’d change, that one day he’d make things up to Dean and Cas. He had to trust that this was the way to do it.

“Now,” Missouri sighed, “who honed in on this street thing?”

“That jerk, Ansem.”

“The guy Andy’s always yelling at?”

Sam smiled. Andy was usually relaxed and mild-mannered, and made an effort to get along with everyone. Watching him attack Ansem in group was actually pretty funny.

“Right.”

“So, what was this, some deflection away from him?”

Sam stared at the floor of her office. Plain linoleum. Scuffed from the shoes of so many addicts before him. Scuffs he’d added to, and would be seen, by all those following after.

“Sam Winchester, you look at me.” Sam reluctantly raised his eyes. Missouri’s gaze was soft: her smile, warm. “I get you don’t want to say whatever it is in group. But it’s just you and me here, honey. I’ve heard it all and then some.”

Sam felt his eyes suddenly burn with tears. “I...” he took a moment to compose himself.

“Tell me about the street, Sam.”

The young man was quiet. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were filled with tears. “Please...don’t ever, _ever_ , tell Dean.”  
  


**THEN**

Sam woke and knew, without a doubt, that he was dying.

He was shaking, sweating, sneezing. His pulse was racing so fast he could feel himself struggling for breath, and his stomach muscles were cramping so hard he couldn’t straighten out. He’d fallen asleep—or, to put it accurately, passed out—in a patch of grass beside a Church that handed out free meals in the afternoons.

He didn’t think he could eat if he’d _wanted_ to. He couldn’t imagine ever eating again.

“Choking for a hit, mate?”

A pair of black shoes appeared in his blurry vision. He managed to look upward and the short, dark haired man, dressed in slacks and a long black coat, lighting up a cigarette with a slightly predatory smile. “I find it odd that so many of your kind are drawn to Churches. You sleep on their steps, hang around with your little cups and cardboard signs. Where _do_ you get a marker, but not some decent paper to write your sad little stories?”

The man was British. Or Scottish. Or Irish. Sam didn’t know. He honestly thought _great, in addition to dying, I’m hallucinating British characters from a Quinton Tarantino movie._

“What do you—want?” he mumbled.

“I’m a do-gooder,” the man continued. “I get my highs out of reaching out to the unfortunate.”

“If this is the—come to Jesus—talk,” Sam said through gritted teeth, “I don’t—care.”

“Oh trust me, my young friend. Jesus doesn’t care about you either.”

A cramp hit. Sam gasped and doubled-over. Screw Dean. Damn him to hell. He’d never forgive him for this. He was weak and sick from living out here—living without food, without good water.

W _ithout drugs._

No. No, it wasn’t the drugs. It _couldn’t_ be the drugs. He’d been careful. He’d never let it go that far. He was street-sick. Which wouldn’t have happened if Dean had just shutup and let Sam be his own person, for _once._

“Anyway. I’m here to help you slay that dragon you’re chasing. My people did, in fact, kill the last one.” From his pocket, he produced a dime bag with a thin line of white powder on the bottom . “Grade-A, Farm-Fresh...unfortunately, not free-range, but you get the idea. Imagine you Yanks lost several brave soldiers trying to take over the land that makes this lot.”

“How—much?” If he took a hit, his energy would increase. The high would override the sickness. He’d be able to think, focus, figure out his next move. Get up out of the goddamn _dirt_.

“How about...a kiss?”

“A... _what_?”

“Kiss gets a quid’s worth.”

Sam shook his aching, spinning head. “Huh?” Crowley sighed and made a gesture toward his waistband. Sam jerked backwards. “No! I don’t—never!”

“First time for everything.”

“No. I’m—not—”

“It’s not about which way you swing. It’s about how good you are at basic mechanics.”

Sam just needed a boost. Just once. Just to clear his head.

“It’s a perfectly natural act, mate. Trust me. Get it done all the time.” Sam just stared. “If you’d like it in a syringe, I’ve got a spoon with your name on it.”

“No,” he said, hands shaking. “Just...”

The man pulled out a small pink plastic tongue depressor and hand sit over the small bag. Sam’s hands shook so much he can barely un-knot the twisty. It really is only a tiny bit, barely a hit, but he guesses that’s the point.

“Plenty more where that came from, if you like.”

“Bet there is,” Sam muttered. He gave up trying to make his stupid hands work to scoop the stash out with the little pink depressor and just snorts as hard as he can from the bag. It takes less than a minute before he’s relaxing: the tremors, calming; cramps, loosening; sweat, stopping up.

The man’s eyes were bright. “Now,” he grinned, “how about that kiss.”

***

When the man left, Sam sat shaking and struggling to get himself under control.

He found a drugstore and shoplifted chewing gum, a few candy bars, and a bottle of Purell. He’d found he could shower at the public pool if he was careful not to get caught sneaking in, but in the meantime, he needed something to feel clean. He chewed the entire pack of gum at once and tried to eat the candy, but it sent his sick stomach off, so he hunted for change for a bit until he had enough for a soft pretzel from a street-vendor. That went down easier. Afterwards, he wasn’t sure what to do, and found a quiet place to sit to try and think. He was coming down from the small high and could feel the confidence, the relaxation, the clarity slipping away. He needed a plan, and goals, something he’d always excelled at putting together, for himself and others.

But he’d always had places to make them. And, when his own confidence failed him, he’d go talk it through with Dean.

He felt a spike of rage at his absent brother. If it weren’t for Dean, he wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with. Dean didn’t get it—Sam had stayed quiet when his brother drank too much. Sam had stayed quiet when Dad had beat his big brother, because Dean demanded it. He had tried to accept the thugs Dean slept with and the loud, obnoxious, overpainted women he’d bring home. But Dean couldn’t allow Sam to have any of his own relief. Cas had said it best: _if God made pain, he made opiates to take away that pain*._ That’s all this was. A little bit of something to help him through losing two women he loved _and_ his Dad.

Well, screw Cas and screw Dean. He could shove the hurt down and keep moving, just like his brother had always taught him.

Dean just didn’t think Sam was an adult, who could make his own decisions. Who could stay in control, just as well as his big brother. And now Sam was sick and on the street, and it was all because Dean had no faith in him. He’d show him. He’d get a life together. He just—

For the first time since he’d started using, Sam felt a slow, cold coil of fear when he realized he was thinking _I just need another hit._

***

The man brought him a bag of fast food. Sam ate it without the slightest bit of dignity—shoving fries in on top of the burger, eating pie between bites of fries. The Scot shook his hand.

“You live like animals. Like stray dogs. And yet, you _swear_ you’re not hooked.”

Sam was too weak, too sick, too damn tired to care. The second his stomach was full, he was going to earn his hit, and then he’d finally see a way out, and everything was going to be fine.

***

The second time he’d gone down on the stranger, he called the garage where Dean works.

It took three tries—and three separate hunts for change—before his brother picked up the phone, his voice its normal, cheery, upbeat self. “John and Jay’s,” Dean chirped, “you got the fritz, we got the fix.”

Sam said nothing. Dean tried a “Yo? Hello? Bad connection?” and finally said “sorry, but you’re gonna have to try back.”

And he hung up. Not needing Sam. Not needing _anything_. Like he’d always been. Tough and cool and impenetrable.

Day after day, Sam had wandered, thinking, trying to plan, hating Dean and Cas and his Dad, and gathering change for another call, something to eat, clean water to drink. He wouldn’t admit anything other than hearing his brother’s voice spurred him to prove him wrong. Because it didn’t comfort him, didn’t remind him of anything safe and warm and good. No. Never.

***

He called himself Crowley. He said he worked in finance by day and was a “do-gooder” by night.

“I locate those of your kind—honest people unable to ascertain regular employment, and I facilitate solutions for their little...hangups.”

“You give drugs for sex,” Sam muttered, glaring over his shoulder. He’d puked as soon as he’d finished the older man off _. Congrats, big bro. On my knees in an alley giving head. Sound like a typical Saturday in your teens?_

“You Yankees are so _cynical_. Here I am keeping you alive, and you’re there looking at me like I’m some monster.”

“I’d be fine without you,” Sam hissed. Crowley smiled.

“Of course you would, mate.”

He goes down four more times on the British/Scottish/drug-dealing/sonofabitch. He felt the truth screaming at him, ever-closer, each and every time.

***

The fifth time he called the garage, saying nothing, Dean followed “Bad connection?” with “Sammy?”

Sam gasped without meaning to. Dean’s voice dropped to a warm murmur. “Sammy...talk to me. C’mon. Tell me where you are. I’ll come get you.”

The operator asked for more change. Sam’s eyes filled.

“Call back Collect. Don’t worry about the money. Don’t worry about anything, kiddo, just tell me where I can see you. We can fix it, Sam, I can help you, take care of you. Sammy, please—”

Sam hung up. He was cold. He needed both arms to hug his rotting sweatshirt close. 

***

Sam was spitting out the last of his puke when Crowley’s hand landed on the back of his head and shoved him forward against the wall.

“What?” he started, and then felt the man’s hands sliding toward the button on his jeans. “No—no!”

Crowley’s knee landed on the back of his neck and shoved, hard. “Shut it, you filthy maggot,” he hissed. Sam kicked and clawed and finally got a well-placed elbow in and managed to roll on his back. Crowley launched forward, syringe in hand. Sam didn’t know what was in it, but he knew if he stuck it into him, he’d be helpless.

“Sonofabitch—” he gasped, and gripped his arms. He was far weaker than usual, but he still had the advantage of height and weight, and he used it.

“Take—it—” Crowley roared, fighting the needle down toward Sam’s throat, “you’re a useless filth anyway. I’m the only reason you’re still breathing!”

“Go—to— _hell_!” Sam threw the older man away, watching the syringe roll off. He leapt to his feet and stomped on it, relieved to hear the glass shatter beneath his foot. Then he turned and stared straight into the barrel of a gun.

Crowley released the safety. “Silencer came installed. I could end you right now and no one would even give a rat’s arse.”

Sam stared as an absolute _roar_ raged through him. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t _deserve_ to die. Not like this. He was more than this _monster_ had made him into.

He was Sam Winchester, blood with Dean Winchester, who wouldn’t bat an eye in the face of a threat. And he’d taught his kid brother everything he knew.

Sam held up his hands in surrender and faked fear. “Alright,” he said softly. “Alright. Just... _please_. No tranqs.”

Crowley stared at him long and hard. Then lowered the pistol.

Sam launched himself forward and slammed his fist into the shorter man’s face. He didn’t hold back—he slammed and punched and beat and until he had the gun in his hands. The older man on _his_ knees, for once, coughing, hurt, and furious.

But when he looked up at Sam, he smiled.

“Go on,” he hissed. “Good luck. You’re gonna _fuckin’_ need it.”

Sam turned and ran.

***

He wasn’t sure where he was when he stopped. His heart was racing, he had sweat working down his face, and his stomach was starting to cramp. He felt almost savagely dizzy, and unnaturally hot, and he stumbled back and forth across the street, pausing only to vomit. Out of the corner of his vision, he saw people jerking away from him, jerking their _children_ away.

“I was going to go to law school!” he screamed at a couple who quickly crossed the street. “You don’t know! You don’t— _get_ it—”

He made it another two blocks before the hurt and the sickness caught up to him, and he slid down against a closed storefront and did something he hadn’t since his father had died—he cried.

He sobbed. He _screamed._ Snot ran into his mouth and coated his sleeves when he tried to wipe it. His stomach cramped, he shook, and he wailed like a child.

He’d hear a million names for this moment later—‘hitting bottom.’ ‘Moment of clarity.’ ‘Turning point.’ ‘Awakening.’ But for him, there was one word for it: hell.

He had nothing.

He had no one.

And he could no longer deny that his sickness was from living on the street. Or from not eating right. Or from not having enough clean water to drink.

He was sick because he was addicted to drugs and alcohol.

He was on the street because he’d loved being high more than he’d loved the brother who’d given everything but his life for him: and if his life had been required, he’d have given him that.

Everyone he loved was gone, and it was all his fault. And worse yet, what he’d thought was helping was nothing more than an addiction, a nasty, manipulative, evil behavior that he’d _welcomed_.

Any other time in his life that he’d been sick, or scared, or lonely, or hurting, Dean had been there. Sam hadn’t even had to ask him to be. He just _was_ , and he was full of jokes and tricks and warm words all designed to make Sam feel accepted and protected. And he’d taken it—taken _Dean_ —for granted.

He’d have blown Crowley ten, twelve, fifteen times or more if it would bring Dean right now. Because Sam finally understood that all his feelings of power and control and maturity were nothing but delusions and chemical highs. He couldn’t trust his own instincts: they’d betrayed him. And, by trusting them, he’d betrayed Dean. And Cas. And the memories of Maddy and Jess.

It was like the Earth was opening up and there was nothing but darkness beneath him, and somehow, if he used enough, that darkness went away. And now, with nothing to use, he could finally see everything he’d been fighting off—grief, guilt, terror, confusion, pride and pain.

Sam didn’t know how long he lay on the pavement crying. But when he finally stopped his stomach was cramping, the world was spinning, the sweat and sneezing and chills were starting, and there was a little colony of dollar bills at his feet. He gathered them together, walked to the nearest bus stop, and asked for directions to the Rosemount Clinic.

***

He’d never meant for Cas to pay. He knew that he came from, and had, money, but that wasn’t why he had Alan call Cas. He’d hoped, somewhat crazily, that Cas would vouch for him. Tell him he wasn’t totally bad and made wrong—that he’d been good once, that he’d been healthy once. That somehow, that would count in his favor.

Cas had, of course, offered to pay for everything, since Sam had no health insurance. He knew that this was Cas’ equivalent of love and support, just as Dean’s had been to break into homes and steal clothes and books; to shoplift from stores to steal pens and pencils and notebooks and calculators.

Sam knew he didn’t deserve any of it. He also knew he couldn’t live without it.

For most of his life--as pathetic and lame and corny as it sounded--his drug of choice had been his big brother. Dean could make things right by sheer force of will. He had a way of cutting through the bull and confidently swearing that everything was right and fine, and if it wasn’t, that it was easy enough to _make_ right and fine. If he needed a boost, in confidence, in Sitting in the Rosemount waiting room, imagining the Impala barreling toward him in the night, Sam tried to tell himself that all this new threat needed was Dean’s reassurance. That somehow his brother would say everything would be fine and the sickness and shame and dark, dark future would all be erased.

It wasn’t until Dean opened his arms to him and held him tight that he realized he’d gone so far that not even his brother’s love could cure it. That he had a seemingly endless amount of work to do, and most of it, like it or not, would have to be on his own.

But, even if he realized Dean was only human, having him close helped.

It helped a whole lot.  
  


**NOW**

Missouri had been quiet the whole time. When Sam finally took his eyes off the floor and looked at her, he was stunned to see she was close to tears.

“We’re gonna have to stop for today,” she murmured. “It’s a bad time and I’m sorry.”

Sam swallowed, hard. “Um...would it be alright if we...maybe...didn’t talk about this for awhile?”

“Whatever you want to talk about, honey. That’s what I’m here for.”

And then she did something she’d never done before—she reached across the space between them and took his hand in hers.

“Don’t you give up on yourself,” she said fiercely. “I ain’t givin’ up. Dean ain’t givin’ up. Cas ain’t givin’ up. Alan sure as _hell_ ain’t givin’ up. So you don’t either.”

Sam tried hard not to cry. “Will you pray with me?” he managed. Missouri nodded.

“God,” she began, “grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”

“The courage to change—” Sam’s voice caught.

“The things I can," Missouri said seamlessly. And—” she looked to him.

“The wisdom to know the difference.”

“Amen,” she murmured, squeezing his hand, hard. He looked into her damp eyes and knew he wasn’t he first to admit such things, wouldn’t be the last; and she’d take his shame to her grave. And maybe he wouldn’t be up for group or meals or even meds, but he felt, for the first time, that she’d truly understand.

“Amen,” he said, as a knock on the door signaled Missouri's next session.


End file.
